An Angel's Grace
by eviterna
Summary: Archangels are tied to prophets, acting as their protectors when the need arises - each prophet has an archangel tethered to them. Or, alternatively: Simon doesn't need Heaven when he's in Raphael's arms.
1. Chapter 1

Simon's heart is beating hard against his ribs, threatening to burst through his chest. He's panting, trying to get more air into his lungs, his throat burning from the cold air. His chest hurts, his legs and muscles are screaming at him to stop, but his mind is telling him to _run._

He looks behind himself, and the woman is still there, chasing him relentlessly. He groans and tries picking up the pace. His feet slam into the pavement at top speed and then pick up again, and he doesn't think he's run this much or this fast since he was twelve. His jacket is flying behind him, and his shirt is sticking to his body due to the sweat.

He skids on the pavement and makes a sharp turn to the left, in a small alleyway between two run down buildings. There's a line of trashcans up ahead. He jumps, foot clanging against the metal cover, but it's not good enough. He loses his balance and topples over, along with the trashcans, making a loud crashing noise of metal on metal. Simon's sprawled on the floor, panting harshly, chest heaving. He sees the silhouette of the woman at the end of the alleyway, and her white teeth shine in the moonlight as she turns to him.

Simon scurries back, unable to stand up, his ankle hurting terribly, every move of his foot sending needles of pain along his leg. It's sprained.

The woman closes in on him when he can't retreat backwards any further, since the road is there and he doesn't want to be run over by a car.

Her grin stretches into a twisted grimace, and her eyes turn black, making her look inhuman, beastly, otherworldly. Even though her eyes are as black as ink, he can still see the madness in her eyes, the unadulterated insanity.

She doesn't speak, but instead stretches her arm out, curling her fingers around empty air. She starts twisting her hand slowly, and Simon feels his neck twist to the side slowly, uncontrollably. His mouth falls open in a silent shout, trying to pull his neck back, because he knows that if these keeps up it'll snap.

All of the sudden, a blinding white light fills his vision. He closes his eyes instinctively, and yet the light still burns hot at his eyelids, makes his skin burn. He doesn't scream though, his voice caught in his throat, his vocal chords tied in a knot.

His ears are ringing, the shrilling whine of alarm inside his head, seemingly slashing at his brain with sharp blades. He holds his hands over his ears, noticing the pressure on his neck is gone, and folds into himself, curling up into a ball. He'd cry, because he's never felt this kind of fear and confusion in his life, but he can't because the burning light dries his tears.

And just like it started, it's over. The light fades, recedes, and his mind is empty, the silence a peaceful relief to the earlier pain in his throbbing head.

He waits for a few seconds before opening his eyes slowly, blinking to get used to the darkness, white spots flashing everywhere, like when you look too close at the Sun. A car passes behind him, and he can hear it, so it means he's not deaf. He's not blind, either.

Someone is standing above him, but he doesn't know who it is, and he can't tell because he's only seeing their legs.

His head is spinning, and the white dots are completely blocking out his vision. His head feels like someone's drilling into it. He collapses onto the ground, exhausted. His vision goes black.

When he awakes, he's in bed. The blankets are over him, and his head doesn't ache anymore. He groans, and moves around in bed. Nothing hurts. Good. He holds his hands up to his face, and though his vision is somewhat blurry, it's because he's not wearing glasses. He puts them on.

Now that his vision is clear, he looks around his bedroom, hearing the bones in his neck creak.

And then he almost gets a heart attack.

Someone is sitting on the chair beside his bed.

Simon jumps and screams, scurrying away from the man sitting in his room.

"Who are you? _What are you doing in my room?_ " Simon exclaims weakly, reaching around behind himself for anything he can use as a weapon. It turns out to be a ballpoint pen. Not the best he could hope for, but it could potentially blind someone, or at least seriously bruise.

The man turns to look at him, and if it weren't for the fear racing in Simon's veins, his breath would've been taken away because Simon thinks he's just found the most beautiful man on Earth.

His skin is tanned, olive coloured. His features are polished, refined, his cheekbones high and prominent, his jaw hard-set. His lips are from another world, rosy and full and soft. His hair is dark brown, slicked back, the colour of earth and a dark sunset. His eyes are what shock Simon the most - brown too, but piercing, sharp, attentive, resembling smoky quartz. He doesn't even look real. He's clad in a dark leather jacket and jeans, contrasting with the stark white room.

"I am the angel Raphael, one of the seven, who stand before the Lord." the man says with a booming, reverent, powerful voice. Simon recognizes the saying, because though he was raised jewish, he's read the Bible before.

"You're insane." Simon concludes, pointing the pen at him more insistently, trying to get off the bed by inching slowly to the edge.

"I insist, I am completely sane." Raphael continues, still not taking his eyes off Simon. The boy can feel his gaze through him, sending cold shivers down his spine.

The man moves, and when he shifts in his seat, his jacket moves aside, and a gleam of a blade shines in sunlight.

Simon feels fear knot up his throat and clench at his stomach, paralyzing him completely. This 'angel' doesn't make a show of it, or take it out. Simon's synapses are firing, his mind racing to find a way to escape this situation. He doesn't know how this man got in, but just by checking his body structure, he knows he's stronger, if his wide shoulders and strong arms are anything to go by. He slowly moves a hand to the drawer in the bedside table where he keeps his phone, and reaches for it blindly, trying to make as little noise as possible while he tries thinking of ways to distract Raphael.

"Prove it, then." Simon challenges. "Prove you're an angel."

"I do not think you wish me to." The man says, calmly. It irks Simon. He won't take his eyes off him, so he can't possibly dial 911, not when he's watching. He might take out that blade he saw earlier.

"I do. If you don't do it, then I can't believe you." Simon counters, feigning confidence.

Raphael sighs. "Fine. But I warn you, this might anger you."

Simon is baffled, but he nods anyway. He needs to leave this room and escape, before he gets chopped up into tiny pieces by this - _lunatic._

The man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He extends his arms, and Simon takes his chance. He dials 911, presses the phone to his ear, and waits for someone to pick up.

Nobody does. If they did, Simon couldn't hear it, because a simultaneous cracking and crashing sound echoed throughout the apartment. Glass shattering, falling to the floor in a thunderous second.

Simon pulls the phone away from his ear, and sees light smoke coming out of the back. He opens it and coughs as some more smoke puff up in his face. The battery is fried.

" _What did you do?"_ Simon yells, looking around the room. On the floor, at the foot of his bed, broken glass from the lamp that once hung from the ceiling lays there in shards. He crawls onto all fours and looks down the hall, and realises the lights there are broken too.

"Get. Out. Of. My. House." Simon grits out. Nobody can hear him, even if he screamed - all his neighbours leave for work early, and he lives on the top floor.

The boy then flings the broken phone at him and runs for it, jumping over the broken glass. He locks himself in the bathroom but - ' _Ah!'_

The lights aren't on, so he doesn't see the broken glass on the floor. He yelps in pain and falls to the floor, clutching his bare feet in pain. Blood is trickling down his hand, warming it, pooling on the floor. It hurts like hell, and when he feels around his foot, he accidentally pushes the glass in further, making him scream in agony. His pain tolerance has always been very low, ever since he was a kid. He knocked his pinkie on a table once and had ice on it for three days.

Now it feels like someone's stabbed his foot all the way through, like someone's driven a thunderbolt into his body. He whimpers in pain, refusing to cry, just trying to stop the bleeding by applying pressure with his fingers. He painfully shifts to where the toilet paper roll is, and he takes a lot of it, holding it to the wound.

He closes his eyes and tries relaxing his body, tries to block out the pain like they do in books.

' _He ignores the pain.' 'She runs through the pain of her injury.'_

That's always been bullshit to Simon. He's always had a low tolerance for pain, and having a piece of glass shoved in your foot hurts like a bitch.

His head feels hot against the cool bathroom tiles, and he's on the verge of tears.

Suddenly, the lights switch on. The blood is still on the floor, but the glass is gone, and the lights are shining. Simon squints his eyes and looks up to see Raphael kneeling over him.

Painfully, groaning with every move, he squirms away, until his back hits the wall.

"Get away from me." he seethes, but Raphael's determined expression is unchanged and unwavering.

"You're hurt. I must protect you." Raphael says, and gives no further explanation. Simon is terrified, and his whole body shakes with fear.

"Stay away," Simon says weakly, putting up a shaky hand that lightly brushes Raphael's chest.

Raphael ignores him, and presses two fingers to his forehead.

A strange, fuzzy, warm feeling runs through Simon, like getting covered in a blanket in winter, easing his pain and calming his mind. His eyes close, and he lets the feeling run through him, revelling in the comfort and warmth.

When he opens his eyes, the searing pain is no longer there. He knows no more than seconds have passed, but it felt like hours, in the odd warmth that flowed from the tip of Raphael's fingertips -

 _Raphael._

"What - what are you?" he asks now, panic rising in his voice. He's scared again. The lights in the bathroom have been fixed, so he assumes the rest are too.

This person - man - thing - is evidently not human, and Simon feels something odd coiling in his stomach, a mix of fears and curiosity that he feels betray his primal instinct to _get the fuck out of there._

Simon stands up, puts a hand on the sink, leaning against it. He's dizzy, confused. Does this have anything to do with the previous night?

"I told you," Raphael speaks in that annoyingly calming voice that Simon is starting to despise slightly. "I am the archangel Raphael."

Simon's eyes have blown wide, and he's gripping at his hair with one hand, tugging harshly, hoping the pain will wake him up from this horrible nightmare he's having.

"But you can't be!" Simon shouts, furious. He doesn't know why - maybe it's his emotions boiling over, his confusion blending with the muddled feeling in his brain from the odd healing mere seconds ago.

"Why not?" Raphael asks, standing up and facing him. The look in his eyes is something Simon can't quite place - something he's never seen before, like he's a robot, like he's not staring at anything yet focused completely on him at the same time. It doesn't scare Simon, just unsettles him.

"Because I'm an atheist!" Simon yells back. His brain hurts, everything he's believed up until now is wrong. He wants to think this is a horrible nightmare, but he can't, because the reasonable part of him _knows_ it's not.

The angel, finally, shows some emotions and rolls his eyes. "That's not how it works."

His irritated tone of voice shocks Simon, and he blinks twice, taken aback. He curls his fingers against the sink and breathes, deeply, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Raphael is still there.

"Why are you here?" Simon croaks, throat raw and aching from the screaming.

"Because you are a prophet of the Lord." Raphael says in his monotone, calm voice.

If there was a maximum level of confusion, Simon is at it, because now he can't keep his grip of reality.

" _What?"_

Raphael frowns for a moment, before continuing. "You are a prophet of the Lord, chosen to interpret the word of God."

Simon feels strange, dizzy. His head feels like it's made of lead, the gooey substance filling the crevasses in his brain.

"I can't be." Simon counters, trying to find the last bits of logic he can. "Struggling poets are _not_ Heaven's prophets."

"Just - listen to me, will you, you stubborn bastard!" Raphael blows up at him.

Simon is genuinely taken aback, and he leans on the sink, inching away from the angel before him, wanting to close his eyes and block out the intense stare he's receiving from this otherworldly being, but he can't, trapped in the irises like quicksand.  
The angel doesn't seem to notice Simon's fear, he doesn't seem to notice the way Simon's legs quiver and shake, or how the boy's hands tremble, or how his eyes are pleading for him to stop, to shut up, to leave and forget this ever happened.  
" _Listen to me."_ Raphael says, leaning even closer still, arms on either side of Simon's body, his stare the most intent and intense Simon has ever had the chance to lay eyes upon, his eyes simultaneously the most terrible yet the most beautiful he has ever seen, eyes like flame and eyes like sand, eyes like steel and eyes like thunder, furious yet calm eyes, a gaze of calm storm. "You are Heaven's chosen, Simon Lewis. What you write will be recorded in History, your life shall be told for generations, the paths you walk, venerated, and the air you breathe, desired. You will lay down and interpret the Word of God, of Angels, of the Heavenly, and it shall be treasured, and passed on. You, Simon Lewis, were handpicked by the Lord himself.  
Treat this opportunity wisely. Do as told, and rewards unimaginable await you in the golden skies.  
Simon Lewis, you are one of many, but will be like none."  
Raphael is leaning even closer, and his voice reverberates inside Simon, a constant echo that promises glory. It's indescribable to anyone that hasn't heard it, something one can't replicate in any earthly way.  
Simon thinks. For the longest time, he thinks, the words Raphael has said caught between them. He finally has the courage to ask, to put his thoughts into words, and they come out raspy and rough, like they're sandpaper against his throat. "Why me?"  
"History has always had its eye on you, Simon Lewis." Raphael replies, angelic and deep, something powerful behind it, a sense of undeniable truth hiding beneath every word.  
And just like that, he's gone.  
Simon hears something like the flap of wings, feels a gust of air hit his face gently, moving his hair, he sees a wisp of gold, and then nothing but the expanse of his bathroom and the corridor wall.  
He shakes his head a few times, trying to find the sense in the senseless, logic where there is none, explain the unexplainable, and attain the unattainable by thinking about this in a rational manner.  
I need something strong. Simon thinks, and heads for the kitchen. He opens the alcohol cabinet, pulls out the vodka from the back, and takes two big gulps.  
What he doesn't see, however, as he leaves the bathroom, is the golden feather that gently falls to the tiled floor.

"Make it stop, make it stop, make it _stop!_ " Simon yells at nobody, gripping the sides of his head like they're about to fall off as he rolls back and forth on the floor.

A loud screeching noise is rattling inside his head, the sound piercing through his ears, gnawing away at his brain. It feels as if someone had put a spear through one of his ears and it had come out the other, slicing a hole in his head. The loud screeching noise wouldn't stop, like a thousand times the cry of an unearthly beast.

Simon doesn't know how long it's been going on for - seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, centuries. He's lost the perception of time, the pain in his head the only thing he can focus on. Tears are welling in his eyes and he can't take it, his eyes screwed shut in pain and his teeth grit tight, already hurting his jaw.

"Please, just make it stop." Simon pleads in a low voice, almost a whimper, to no one, to anybody that'll hear. The dim afternoon light shining in through the windows too bright, the feeling of the wooden floor beneath his knees too cold, the clothes he's wearing are itchy, the glasses resting on his nose too heavy.

Simon knows nobody can hear him, but he still wishes the pain away.

Far away, as if he weren't in his body, lightly, he feels a hand on his back, rubbing it. He can barely feel it, but he knows the hand is warm. It's soothing, but it can't calm him down. He rolls onto his side, and feels his back hit something, someone. The warmth helps relax him as the pain subdues the tiniest bit, the screeching and wailing inside his head lowering a bit. The high pitched sounds are not in any scale measured by men, for if they could it would break glass, and tear through metal like a blazing beam of light.

"Please…" Simon sobs, brokenly, his hands tugging hard at his hair, hurting his head, but it's not enough to stop the onslaught of pain he feels.

The hand keeps rubbing his back, now gently skimming his side with their fingers. Something else comes into contact with him. It's something that feels like a feather, light and soft, brushing his face. Even through closed eyelids, he can see this - like a ray of gold, the soft glint of warm yellow light bathing his vision, turning the night to day.

The pain is softly subduing, the sound gently dulling down until he can't hear it anymore. Everything feels too quiet now, silence filling the empty space left by the screeching.

A familiar feeling rushes over him then, a fuzzy, warm feeling that emanates from a single spot in his forehead. It wraps him up, fixing the damage slowly. The ringing in his ears is gone, and so are the tears, now dry. The feeling is gone.

He opens his eyes, and he catches something - a flash of gold that catches the setting sun, flames that burn dimly before Simon. Then he hears a rush of wind, and silence fills him once more.

Now that the presence is gone, a deep feeling of loneliness settles upon him. He tries to imagine, to recreate the warmth mentally, the comfort of being touched by those hands, but as hard as he tries, he can't.

He doesn't see the feather that falls behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he's asleep, and it's the next day. He doesn't do it of his own volition. If he could, he would've spent the next week writing non-stop, but his body pleads for him to rest, and stop.

Ever since he heard that wailing in his head, he's been writing for hours on end, the commands and words spouting forth like his hands are the fountain and the words his water, rushing out of him continuously.

He slams the keys out of control, not knowing what he's writing, like he's a robot, just jotting down the orders from above.

When he finally lifts his hands off the keyboard, he's in deep sleep, dreaming.

Raphael clicks his fingers, and Simon falls asleep slowly. The angel sighs, moving Simon's hair out of his face. He stared for long minutes at him, at the poet's soft features. His hair is disheveled, messy, just like it always is. His eyes are hidden behind black glasses, and the slightest hint of a five o'clock shadow frames his face. Raphael watches him sleep, mesmerised. Angels don't sleep, because they don't need to, but he's never been so close to a sleeping human, in all his years of existence. He is the angel of healing, but after curing his patients he leaves. He never watches them sleep.

Raphael picks Simon up like he's a feather, weightless, and carries him to his bed. He lays him down softly. He sits and watches for a while longer, timing his breathing to Simon's. It's incredible to him, how vulnerable he is, like a newborn, like a flower, left to the mercy of those who live around it.

Raphael has been alive since the world was created, and only his six brothers wield the same power he does, have the same strength he does. If he wanted to, he could destroy the world in a blink of an eye, he could cause chaos and destruction and rain havoc upon the earth like nothing humanity's ever seen.

And yet, the task of _this_ human being's life depending on him weighs him down like the weight of the world. He feels like Atlas, balancing the planet upon his shoulders.

He unfolds his wings, and reaches one out to brush Simon's cheek gently, gold catching starlight through the window.

" _Sleep, my prophet."_ he murmurs, low in his throat. He pulls his wing back, and leaves the room, the wind he creates after blowing Simon's hair back in his face.

The next morning, Simon wakes up to find a golden feather on his bedside table. He has never seen anything like it before - it shimmers and shines like gold, but it is as light as a normal feather, and the way it gleams is different, not like the sheer brightness of metal, but more like the dancing vivacity of flames. He holds it out, twirls it in his hand, skims over it with the pad of his finger. It's hot to the touch, which it shouldn't be, because it's winter. Though he sleeps next to the heater, the feather should be cold. Inanimate objects don't have their own source of heat.

He leaves it where he found it, and makes himself a cup of coffee. He realises something as he steps towards the kitchen - his mind is at peace. There is nothing urging him to write, to tell, to translate, to work like he has for the past six days.

" _...and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made."_

Simon jumps in his skin, terrified at the sudden deep voice that assaults him. He recognises it.

"Don't scare me like that!" Simon chastises, and Raphael frowns.

"You asked a question. I answered." Raphael says simply, as if that explains it.

Simon takes a deep breath. "Fine."

Simon feels odd at being watched so closely. He moves around the kitchen uneasily as a pair of eyes watch him intensely.

"What," Simon teases, turning to look at the angel. "have you never seen someone make a cup of coffee before?"

Raphael leans against the kitchen counter. "No."

Simon arches an eyebrow. "Really? You've been alive for so long, I thought…" he trails off.

"I am an archangel. I do not deal with the mundane. I have not eaten or drank in centuries."

 _There it is again,_ Simon thinks. That voice, clear and high with impotence.

"You're really missing out, then. Pizza is amazing."

Simon giggles at a dumbfounded Raphael, and he sits at the table, steaming mug of coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

"Simon." Raphael says, sitting in the chair across from him.

"Mmmhmm?" Simon looks up from his phone to lock gazes with Raphael. It's far too intense, almost distressing, to have him staring like that, so the prophet looks away.

"Why do you live in this place?" Raphael asks, confusing Simon. That wasn't what he expected.

"What do you mean?" Simon replies.

"This - house. It's - it's - well, it's run-down, for starters. Far too old, far too faulty. Have you not a better place to stay?" Raphael asks this like the answer is obvious, like it's an easy problem to fix. Simon doesn't know whether to feel offended, amused or embarrassed.

"Well - uh - you see, poetry has never been a good business unless you're successful. I am not. The books I sell are hardly enough to pay rent, let alone fix this place. The new phone isn't even mine, my friend had his old one lying around and he gave it to me. I told you before, I am a struggling poet. Of course, you wouldn't understand, what with living in Heaven and all…" he whispers the last sentence under his breath, thinking Raphael wouldn't be able to hear it.

"I cannot help that I reside in Heaven, or that I am an archangel." Raphael says, very matter-of-a-fact-ly.

"Well I can't help being poor either, okay?" Simon spits, getting worked up for no reason. He shouldn't be mad, but he is. Raphael looks surprised at the sudden outburst. Simon's eyes soften, and he lowers his tone, trying to make it less harsh. "Look, I could choose to work as something else. I could work at McDonald's, or in an office doing paperwork, but instead, I do what I do because I love writing. The sales are just enough to scrape by, and since I don't really need the money, I'll keep doing this. Sure, the bathroom needs a little fixing, and the paint is flaking off the walls, but for now, it's just enough."

"Wouldn't you prefer something else?" Raphael is curious about his new prophet, undoubtedly.

"No, not really."

Simon downs the coffee in his hands, bitter because he hates adding sugar to it. He stands, and puts it in the sink.

He's about to leave the kitchen, when someone tugs at his arm.

"Wait, Simon - stay."

The younger man turns, surprised, and nods. _It's strange,_ he thinks, _how I do whatever he wants. Will I always be at his will?_

"I must confess something."

Simon's eyes widen. He sits down on the table, and nods, urging the archangel to continue.

"I've never had a prophet, or been tied to one." Raphael looks away. "You are my first."

Simon doesn't know what to say - he's shocked to say the least. He'd thought that, since Raphael is such an important archangel, he would have had more prophets in the past. Simon doesn't know how to feel - honoured, maybe.

"I'm nervous now," Simon speaks finally.

"Why?" Raphael asks him, glancing up from the floor, morning sun making his dark eyes shine.

"I've never been anyone's 'first' anything. And I've certainly never been a prophet. It's a strange sort of weight on me, like I'm meant to do something, or live up to expectations." Simon explains, leaning his chin on his hand.

"What expectations would I have, when I have nothing to rely upon, or guide me as to what makes a 'good' prophet - though I don't believe there is such a guide.

"Write, Simon Lewis, and you will be a good prophet."

Raphael's voice makes him tremble, unable to meet the angel's gaze. Simon looks askance, huffing under his breath. " _You must be fun at parties."_

"What was that?" Raphael leans forward.

"Nothing."

Suddenly, maybe because of their link, or his being a prophet, faded memories come to life then die in his head, like a polaroid developing in reverse.

He gets memories of a great battle, in which there is nothing but blinding light and a darkness like the universe itself. He gets memories of flames, glory, of a demon and desert dunes.

Simon grips his temples and closes his eyes, breathing hard. Something is shearing past the mental block in his mind, tearing away at him, like a great blazing spear piercing through his head.

"It's coming back, Raphael - I -" Simon struggles to find the words, instead shooting up and rushing to his laptop, opening it at lightning speed.

"I want to stop," Simon whimpers meekly, looking at the angel with pleading eyes. "Please, make it stop."

His eyes hold something, a dying glint behind the begging irises, seemingly saying, ' _You promised I could rest.'_

Raphael feels, for the first time in eons, something tugging at the strings of his heart.

"I can't," Raphael whispers, and looks at Simon apologetically, knowing it's pathetic, and not enough, not enough for his prophet, but he can't do anything else. "I'm sorry."

Simon's eyes are blazing in pain, because he knows he's going to spend the next days writing endlessly, unable to give in to sleep or hunger or thirst.

And Raphael needs to leave.

Simon's tear and the golden feather hit the floor in unison.

" _And the Angel goeth back,_

 _to the desert where the demon was bound,_

 _but he shall not be alone -_

 _for the prophet there will be found."_

"Soon, the time will come." says Magnus, sprawled on the couch with a leg slung over the back, and another on the other dangling over the edge.

"What do you mean?" Raphael asks, sitting in the chair opposite the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

It's a lazy afternoon, one where not even angels want to work.

Simon's teary eyes burn in Raphael's mind. Every time the subject comes up, it's like giving the embers life once more, lighting the spark that gives way to the flame that is his guilt.

"You know what I mean. You have seen the prophet's writing." Magnus explains, with a matter-of-a-fact tone of voice.

Raphael doesn't answer, merely glares at the other angel. Magnus laughs at his expression.

"Calm down brother; I am merely stating the facts. Is it a crime now, to tell the truth?"

Raphael presses his lips into a line. "No; but it is a crime to irritate me further."

"What will you do? Smite me?" Magnus' joyful laughter resonates around the apartment with an echo, and though it normally annoys Raphael to no end, he finds it comforting, something to go home to - though he'd rather cut off his wings than admit it. Not that Magnus doesn't know.

"I could."

"You won't."

Raphael won't, of course, because he loves Magnus, and smiting someone requires a lot of effort _and_ energy, and Raphael has neither.

"Magnus, I didn't come here for chatter." Raphael's expression turns dark, suddenly.

"Oh?" Magnus feigns surprise. "What _did_ you come for?"

"I need your help." Raphael moves closer to the other angel, though he knows no one can hear them.

"What can I do?" Magnus asks.

"I need to prevent the Event from happening." Raphael's tone is dark, and concerning.

"Why?"

"I...I cannot let Simon suffer." The archangel looks away, staring so hard at the floor Magnus fears for his floorboards.

"Simon? The _prophet?_ " Magnus howls in laughter again, until he sees Raphael is not laughing, at all, and he stops. "Oh - you're serious."

"Deadly."

The older of the two stands up, beginning to pace the room. Magnus watches with observant eyes at his brother, forever left to wonder what goes on in his head. He's sure he can hear the cogs and wheels turning in Raphael's brain, if he listens hard enough.

"Have you begun caring for the boy, Raphael?" Magnus inquires, narrowing his eyes at the pacing man. The older stills for a moment, turning his head to look at Magnus, before continuing to pace.

"I cannot answer." comes Raphael's meek, barely there reply, a stale tone of voice making the words seem harsher than usual.

"Yes you _bloody_ can." Magnus presses, standing up too.

Raphael turns to him once more, contained rage shining in the smoky gems of his eyes.

"So what if I care for him? It is my job as archangel, is it not?" Raphael and Magnus are face to face, in a standoff-ish way, in which Magnus is looking up at his brother, a completely different fire dancing inside him.

"It is not! Your job is to protect him - caring was never in the job description." Magnus' voice is exasperated, frustration seeping into the cracks of his tired tone.

"Do you know what you are? You are a hypocrite." Raphael spits, then turns away. Magnus is shocked.

"Excuse me?" The fire contained in the younger of the two spreads, soon to light Raphael's own ire. "Me, a hypocrite?"

"Yes, you! Here you are, yelling at me for caring about my prophet, yet you speak nothing of the Lightwood boy!"

That is the last straw for Magnus. "Do not speak of him!"

Raphael turns around once more. "So here I am, your brother, asking you to help me prevent the very possible death of a human, one I happen to care about, and you are laughing at me and denying me help when you have a human lover! It is honestly pathetic."

"I have never denied you my help - I was just asking about why you needed it. You know how rare it is, for archangels to love prophets." Magnus relaxes, calms his tone of voice.

"I do not love the boy - I care for him. It's different." Raphael counters, relaxing too, taking a deep breath. The image of a crying, desperate Simon comes back, and Raphael feels his heart break in his chest. If the boy cannot withstand the pain now, he will never survive the next week.

"You have barely known him for two weeks, how could you possibly care for him?" says Magnus, softly now, the apologies going unsaid between them.

"It's - I can't explain. There is something that ties us, a bond that runs straight through us and pulls us together, making us one, indivisible. There is no one without the other." Raphael explains as best as he knows.

Magnus sighs, and sits down again. His eyes are sad and apologetic when he glances back up at Raphael through heavy curtains and thick lashes.

"Now is when I must tell the truth - I know of no way to stop the Event. Raphael, I am not an archangel; I don't have and never will have the power you have. If you cannot stop it, nothing can. It is a prophecy written by the chosen mouthpieces of Heaven. The order comes directly from above,"

"I know one thing now." Raphael sits down with a huff.

"Yes?"

"I'm fucked."


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few weeks, they get closer to each other.

Simon comes to terms with the process, with the intensity of the visions, of having Raphael around him all the time, like a shadow. Or an odd cat.

Raphael relieves him of the pain, if only for a few hours, enough for him to eat, drink and rest.

Simon hears before he sees, the flapping of wings, the gust of wind that moves his hair, and the warm touch on his forehead.

"Raphael," Simon murmurs, relieved.

"Yes?" Raphael answers, sitting on the bed beside Simon, who's lying down on it.

"Nothing. I was just acknowledging your presence." Simon laughs dryly, and then turns his head to look away from Raphael. Something inside him has changed, but he doesn't know what. His heart beats faster, his stomach clenches unwantedly, his fingers tremble, his skin tingles - but not all the time. It's only when his guardian angel is in the room.

"Are you alright?" Raphael asks, reaching a hand to his forehead. Simon's whole body shakes, just slightly, and his breathing hitches, though Raphael doesn't notice. He never does.

In fact, the angel turns his palm, and strokes Simon's cheek with the back of his hand. He keeps moving his hand, down to his neck, all whilst Simon keeps utterly still and his chest hardly moves when he breathes.

When Raphael reaches down lower, Simon's hand shoots up automatically, catching the angel's wrist in a vice grip.

"What do you think you're doing?" Simon asks, turning to face Raphael. The angel doesn't blush, but he looks away, clearly embarrassed.

"Checking your temperature." he answers.

Simon would say something, but he's too tired, so he just sighs and lets go of the angel's wrist.

"How long is this going to last?" Simon breaks the silence. "This - break."

The prophet looks up at Raphael's face just in time to see it darken. His eyes harden and his jaw sets, and it's so slight, most people wouldn't notice, but Simon and Raphael are bound by something out of comprehension, so Simon notices.

"I don't know. Not this time." Raphael's voice is grim and strained, and Simon gets the idea that he's hiding something.

"What does that mean?" Simon sits up, leaning on his elbows. Raphael looks so beautiful like this, he thinks, when the golden afternoon light softens his features, turns his hair lighter and his eyes brighter. His eyes have a golden tone to them too.

Simon swallows his thoughts whole, represses them to the end of his mind, where not even the tendrils of consciousness can reach them.

"I can't tell you." is all Raphael offers, and Simon doesn't press any further, because he knows that if he does the archangel will leave, and he doesn't want that.

Simon merely runs his fingertips over Raphael's arm, skating the pads of his fingers over the olive skin. Raphael looks at Simon in curiosity, and Simon tries not to blush.

"Stay," he chokes, and Raphael tilts his head.

"What do you mean?"

"The night. I'm saying you should stay the night."

Simon doesn't know what overcomes him, but after such a wrecking week, he needs warmth, comfort, something to come back home to. Raphael's hands were warm to the touch, so he tugs on his arm.

"Angels do not sleep." Raphael explains, trying to understand.

"Then don't." Simon looks at him almost pleadingly, and he'd be ashamed if only his brain were functioning properly. "Just - stay."

Raphael was warned about this, about how prophets could become dependent on their archangel. He wants to pull away and leave, but he can't find the strength to look away from the brown eyes in front of him.

"Fine."

Simon's heart flutters against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, and he reprimands himself.

 _What are you getting excited about? It's Raphael._

 _Exactly._

The prophet sits up when Raphael sits beside him in bed. "You are not sleeping in jeans." he declares, and gets up. Raphael makes a sound of protest, but it dies when Simon throws him a pair of sweatpants from his wardrobe.

"But -" Raphael tries, but Simon raises his eyebrows and looks at him insistently.

"Just wear them."

Simon averts his gaze when Raphael, who's got absolutely no regard for the rules of social conduct, decided to change right there on the bed.

But he can't deny he shoots furtive glances every now and then. His legs are long, slender, strong, corded with muscle. Simon then looks at his own lanky, skinny legs and his self-esteem drops by a lot.

"I'm done now." Raphael announces after a few minutes.

"Much better," Simon says, and moves to pick up his jeans and throw them over the back of the chair sitting in his room, piled to the top with dirty clothes not clean enough to keep in the closet, yet not dirty enough to put to wash.

"Simon," Raphael says, "why did you look away when I was changing?"

"I -" Simon is at a loss for words. He's never had to deal with someone like Raphael, one of the wisest creatures on this planet, yet one of the least experienced. In everything. "To not embarrass you."

Raphael tilts his head, and at that moment, he reminds Simon of a confused puppy. "Why would I be embarrassed?"

Simon's in despair. "I - look, it's just something humans do, alright?"

"Oh." Something flashes in Raphael's eyes. "I thought maybe you deemed me not beautiful enough to be looked at without clothes on."

Simon's taken aback, because how could this magnificent creature ever believe he isn't beautiful.

"No," Simon murmurs, his voice dropping dangerously low. "never that."

He reaches a hand up to Raphael's face, and props his fingers under his chin, so he can turn the angel's head in such a way they're looking at each other in the eyes.

And now, Simon's heart completely stops beating.

He isn't used to such proximity, such closeness, such mesmerising eyes. They're eyes deep like the ocean, but an ocean of gold and copper. His eyes are kilometres of desert sand that's burning with heavenly fire. Simon's not even sure Raphael's eyes are real, and he leans in closer, to look even farther into them, to see if there's anything beyond the misty plains of onyx.

"Simon," Raphael warns, but his voice shakes.

"Raphael," Simon counters, voice wavering. "You are definitely beautiful."

They're so close to each other Simon can count the small little scars and marks on his face, the tiny little bumps on his nose and cheeks. Simon can calculate the curve of his lips, the exact shade of red his cheeks flush. Their breaths are mingling but they're barely there, and Simon's still not sure this is real, or happening, or what's taken over them…

The shrill sound of Simon's phone ringing brings them back to Earth. Simon jumps away, and reaches to answer the phone, feeling disappointment coil in his stomach.

 _But disappointment at what?_

"Hey Simon!" a girl's voice says over the phone.

"Clary! I haven't heard from you in a while! How are you?" Simon smiles fondly at the sound of his childhood best friend's voice.

"I'm great! Jace is...what on earth is my boyfriend doing?" She asks herself, and there's some muffled sounds and voices in the background, something about ' _No, you can't somersault out of the window,'_ and ' _Because you'll die!'._

"I am surrounded by idiots." Clary confirms, sighing.

"I get the feeling."

"So, how have you been? I haven't heard much from you lately." Clary says.

 _Oh, that's normal you see, I'm apparently a prophet and angels won't stop talking to me and making me write it down for hours on end also I have an archangel attached to me who also happens to be super hot._

"Just fine. Busy, I guess." Simon lies.

"Hey, do you mind us going over tomorrow? I miss you, and so does Izzy." Clary says.

Simon's eyes widen, because he doesn't know how long the block on his mind will last. His hands sweat, he's about to say no, but -

His eyes fall on the picture beside his bed, the one he took with Clary when they went skiing three years ago, and he realises how much he's missed her. He throws caution to the wind, and agrees.

"Sure! I miss you too. But...Is Alec coming?" Simon asks, nervous.

"Yeah, why?"

"We don't exactly...get along."

"It'll be fine! I have to go now, see you tomorrow!" Clary says, as energetic as ever. "Love ya."

"Love you too, Clary." says Simon, and hangs up.

He puts the phone back on his bedside table, and lies down once more, sighing.

"Who is that person, 'Clary'? Is she your lover?" Raphael asks out of the blue, curious.

"What? No! She's my best friend since we were kids 's all." Simon explains, looking up at Raphael, who's looming over him.

"Oh."

Simon reaches a hand up, and pulls Raphael down beside him by his neck, making him lie down beside the prophet. Raphael makes a little ' _Oof!'_ sound when he hits the mattress.

"I need you to do me a favour," Simon states, looking at the bed, pulling at the sheets. If he was so confident earlier, where has it all gone to?

"Anything." Raphael is still so insistent, and over-the-top about everything. All his words sound more powerful and everything he says is more intense. Simon knows it's true.

"Some friends of mine are coming over tomorrow. And…" he trails off.

"And?" Raphael inquires.

"And you have to - uh - hide." Simon explains, feeling his cheeks heat up.

"Hide? Why?" Raphael props himself up on one elbow. This is what Simon wanted, casual talks with Raphael as the light died outside, turning the room dark blue.

"Because...well, they don't believe in monsters, or demons, or angels, or anything like that. And having you here, well, they'd be pretty terrified, and I don't want -"

"So you're saying you're ashamed of me?" Raphael frowns, and sits up. Simon sits with him, reaching out to cup his hand, to pull him closer, to make him stay, or understand, or something in between.

"No - I - I'm just -" Simon is at a loss for words, something that rarely happens, but as Raphael tries pulling away his brain can't function properly.

Over the last weeks, their bond has become irremediably close, the knot that ties them together getting tighter, the rope getting shorter, making them gravitate towards each other. Simon began to miss his angel when he was away, and to cherish their moments together. Raphael yearned to see his prophet, and starved for the sight of him.

Raphael knows it's unhealthy, unnatural for an archangel and a prophet to love each other like this - _eros_ love. They shouldn't even love each other, just need each other in a superficial way, maybe even _philia_ or _agape._ But not _eros._

Raphael isn't even sure he loves Simon, just that he needs him close at all times, that without him he is a man lost at sea.

"You need me to leave," declares Raphael, a hurt look in his eyes. Simon is shaking his head, made emotional by the constant shifts in pace and the feeling gnawing at his insides to pull this being towards him and never let go.

"No - that isn't -" Simon tries, seemingly drowning in quicksand, every move he makes pulling him deeper, choking him.

"Then leave I shall." Raphael states, ripping away from Simon. Simon isn't crying, but he's getting angry at himself for making Raphael upset.

The angel stands, closes his eyes, and disappears.

Simon is chastising himself when the feather lands on the empty pillow on the bed.

…

Simon rolls around in bed, and feels the other side of the bed is warm. He just feels strange at the lack of a body beside him. His eyes open a crack, a fraction, just enough to let the light through. The bed is empty.

He gets up and out, feeling like a bag of garbage. His mouth tastes like morning breath and disappointment, and something is compressing his chest and rising in his throat, something similar to a mix of sadness and unquenchable yearning.

It's odd, this dependency they've created in such a short period of time. Simon needs Raphael close to him all the time, like a drug, like a lifeline.

He brushes his teeth and gets dressed like he doesn't want to, like there's a weight on him dragging his body down.

When the doorbell rings, he needs to stop himself from sighing.

"Simon!" Clary exclaims, throwing herself onto Simon, putting her arms around his neck.

"It's eleven am. You should be killed." Simon says, and fake groans, but Clary just laughs louder, her fiery red hair getting into Simon's face (he cherishes it, secretly). In her ear, he whispers, "I missed you too."

When she finally lets go, the rest come in. Jace, with his gold hair and cold, gold eyes that jump at the chance to underestimate and tease Simon; Alec, with his own way of looking down at people, and acting really high-and-mighty (though if you get him to loosen up he's a really sweet guy); Isabelle, lively as a dancing flame, and dangerous as a poisonous snake; and Magnus, as eccentric as eccentric can get and always seemingly forgetting Simon's name.

"Hey," Jace says cooly, and shakes Simon's hand. Alec doesn't want to, at first, but Isabelle looks at him with insistent eyes and he does it, muttering a small 'Hi,' under his breath. Simon smiles as he screams internally. Magnus does shake his hand, closing the door behind him, grinning as he says, "Hello, Sherwin.". Simon would say something, but instead, he chooses to just force himself to smile. Finally, Isabelle hugs him tightly, and Simon wraps his arms around her gently, blushing slightly when she pulls away to kiss his cheek.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi."

Clary pulls him into a corner of the house, pressed between the table and the wall as she yells: "Make yourself at home!"

Simon yells back. "Please don't!"

"Will do!" Jace retaliates, and Simon sees him put his feet up on the white couch. The prophet winces.

"Simon, look." Clary says in a hushed voice, and she puts her hand out. On her index finger there's a gold ring, inlaid with a design of strange runes Simon has never seen before.

"I don't get it." Simon states. The redhead rolls her eyes but smiles excitedly, glancing at Jace before looking back at Simon. He looks between the hand and Jace a few times, before it clicks in his head. A look of recognition flashes in his eyes, and Clary catches it, smiling at Simon in a full-toothed grin.

" _He prop-"_ he drops his voice when Clary shushes him. "He proposed?"

"Yeah,"

"No way! I'm so happy for you, Clary!" Simon says genuinely, then pulls her into a tight hug, smiling too as she laughs into his ear.

"Yep! But don't tell anyone, okay?" Clary says, and sticks out her pinkie finger once they draw apart. He takes it.

"Promise."

When they get back to the others, Magnus is sprawled above one of the sofas like a cat, stroking Alec's face and moving the hair out of it below; Jace is lying on the other sofa, playing with his phone and Isabelle is sitting in the armchair, speaking with Alec and Magnus.

"Okay, can everyone just sit like normal people, please?" Simon says, already frustrated. He loves them all to pieces (well, maybe not all. Just Isabelle and Clary. Jace, Alec Magnus are tolerated. Actually, only Magnus and Alec are tolerated. He just stands Jace for Clary's sake), but they're all a real pain in the ass sometimes.

With a groan, they all sit normally.

"So what have you been doing Simon?" Isabelle asks, leaning forward. "We haven't heard from you in months."

"Still writing trashy poems I suspect." Jace quips, for which he gets hit with a cushion on the head by Clary.

"Still struggling to pay rent." Alec says dismissively, and Isabelle stares daggers at him.

"I'm still writing," Simon says, struggling to not throttle Jace. Or Alec. Or himself.

With the excuse of a bathroom break and giving them all coffee.

He loves Clary, but sometimes the rest can be a bit aggravating, if not hurtful.

In the bathroom, he closes the door, and sighs heavily. He washes his face, and then sees the black bags under his eyes. Clary whispered whether he was okay in his ear when she hugged him, and now he understands why.

He looks like a picture of death. His face is drained, pale, and above the black bags beneath his eyes the whites of them are red, from the lack of rest. His hair is greasy, and he looks like he hasn't showered in a week, even though he just did two hours ago.

As he opens the bathroom door, something pulls him back by the arm.

"Raphael -" Simon exclaims, before the archangel's hand is pressing against his mouth, shoving him against the wall.

"Simon," Raphael's tone of voice is urgent and insistent, but Simon doesn't seem to hear it, far too overjoyed with the fact that he's back.

"Raphael, where -" Simon tries once his mouth is released.

" _Simon."_ Raphael tries again, and it works. Simon calms down, his eyes turning hard now.

"What? You think you can just disappear and come back whenever you want, no warning, _nothing -"_

" _Simon Lewis, listen to me."_ Raphael says in _that_ tone of voice, the one that sends shivers down Simon's spine every time, the deep one that he feels in every cell of his body. "Who are these people?"

Simon frowns at the question, but answers anyway. "My friends."

"They can't be." Raphael says. "And how do you know Magnus Bane?"

 _And how do_ you _know him?_ Simon thinks, but doesn't say it. "He's Alec's boyfriend, why?"

"Oh." Raphael says, with a look that says that it all falls into place. For him. Simon still understands nothing.

"Raphael, what do you -" Simon asks again, but Raphael just leans in closer, almost pressing their foreheads together, and Simon is breathless.

"I need you to do me a favour." Raphael whispers, and Simon nods, swallowing thickly around the forming knot in his throat.

"Let me explain this one thing, and you cannot speak until the end of it, okay? Or make noise."

Simon is dumbfounded by the odd request, and takes a deep breath when Raphael pulls away.

"Simon, look. Do you see your friends?" Raphael says, opening the bathroom door and leaning out of it, pulling Simon with him.

Simon nods.

"Look at the redhead girl, and the others."

They're all standing around the table, hot mugs of coffee in hand.

"Look closer." Raphael insists, but Simon still doesn't understand.

"Look _closer._ " The angel presses his fingers to Simon's temple, and suddenly, Simon _sees._

In Clary's jeans, in two straps on her legs, is a gun on each side, along with a knife. In Alec's belt, hidden under the hoodie, are more guns. In Isabelle's leather jacket, an arrange of throwing knives and daggers, and in her hair, hidden in a hairpin, a throwing star. It's the same for Jace - guns in his belt, alongside silver knives and a bottle filled with a liquid - holy water.

Simon opens his mouth to gasp, but Raphael pulls him back into the bathroom.

"They're hunters." Raphael explains. "They chase down vampires. Monsters. All sorts of hellish beings. Even angels."

"No -" Simon says, breaking the silence he said he'd maintain, completely disbelieving, even though he's seen the evidence. "Clary, she's - she's always been afraid of weapons - I -"

"Monsters are real." Raphael states. "It's not just me. It's everything - demons included."

Even if Simon believes in angels now, he hadn't thought about demons, or any other supernatural creature.

"Demons?" Simon asks, wide-eyed.

"Yes, demons. I need you to remember that, Simon. It's very important. Understood?" Raphael says, intensely.

"Yes."

"Good." Raphael releases the grip he has on Simon's forearms.

"I can't interfere now, but you must get them out of here as soon as possible." Raphael says, and Simon nods, throat dry.

"I'll be back." The archangel states. "You told me to warn you."

"I did." Simon agrees, nodding. It's all too much, his head is spinning.

"Do not miss me too dearly when I depart - not this time, or my heart will ache for you too."

Simon is so awestruck he forgets to say anything when Raphael leaves.

His friends are murderers, and that's confusing, but what Raphael has said is even more.

Is it a love confession? Is it courtesy? Simon can't stop thinking about the words, but he swallows down the yearning in his stomach, and turns to face his friends.

"Where were you?" Magnus asks.

"Obviously shitting his pants at my awesomeness." Jace replies for him.

"That is not a word." Simon replies flatly.

"It is."

"Not."

"Is."

"Not."

"Is…" Jace replies in a sing-song voice.

…

When they leave, Simon sighs in relief and shuts the door. He cleans up after everybody, and then sits on the couch. His phone is still playing music faintly in the distance.

He turns around, and Raphael is standing there, arms crossed over his chest.

"They've been here the whole day." Raphael states, frowning.

"Yes well," Simon replies tiredly. "I missed them."

"Simon, you cannot throw caution to the wind like that -" Raphael starts, but Simon walks towards him, and takes his hand.

"And you cannot worry so much." he mumbles.

Simon takes Raphael's hands, and loops them behind his neck. He puts his hands on Raphael's hips, and starts swaying them slowly.

"What are you doing?" Raphael asks, but he doesn't pull away.

"Dancing. I like this song." Simon replies easily. He's giddy at the fact that he's an inch taller than Raphael.

They don't speak after that - not about the events of earlier today, Simon's friends or the words Raphael said in the bathroom. They sway to the music. Simon mumbles the lyrics under his breath, looking into Raphael's eyes.

 _We don't have to be ordinary  
Make your best mistakes  
'Cause we don't have the time to be sorry  
So baby be the life of the party…_

"I'm sorry." Simon whispers, just high enough Raphael can hear.

"It's okay. I know." Raphael replies, and then they keep dancing. The city glitters behind them, through the windows, and the music dies behind them, but they're still dancing. When it ends, Simon pulls Raphael to his chest, resting his chin on the archangel's head.

"I need you to be strong for me, Simon." Raphael pleads, in a tone of voice Simon's never heard before.

The prophet has a lot of questions, but he doesn't want to ask them, or ruin the moment. "Okay."

Simon presses a kiss to the top of Raphael's head, and Raphael presses one to the side of Simon's throat, gently, it's almost not there.

"I know you will be strong," Raphael whispers. "My prophet."

Simon feels the knot get tighter and tighter and the rope get shorter and shorter.


End file.
